The first refugees

I believed the worst was behind,

the voyage over, cramped and tossing,

the first winter, harsh, finishing

the house as the snow began to fall,

and a spring, glorious, the explosion

of trees into green, into life. We prayed,

we joined in service, we planted what

seeds we had with us and what seeds

the people beyond the trees gave us.

Then came the fever. I dug your grave

as the children watched, our children

who alone kept me moving, caused me

to arise in the morning, he has

your dimple, she has your eyes.

The harvest was good, not overflowing

but good, we would not hunger this winter,

and the leaders and the women thought it

right to mark the harvest, and we prepared

our game, our squash, our maize,

fruits from the forest, and the people

beyond the trees came through the woods,

and watched for a time, finally walking

into our midst, with more game, and fish,

and berries we had not seen before,

creating an abundance. And we spoke

of God’s provision in this beautiful, hostile

land, and we prayed, and ate, and shared

all we had.

But I still think of you, your dimple

and your eyes, and measure the pain

in the thanksgiving.

Photograph: recreation of Plymouth Colony, Massachusetts.